Grantville Gazette.Volume 22 Read online

  But it was also Andrea who suggested what she should sing, something a little on the radical side. He recalled an up-time orchestral piece that evoked in him some of the same feelings as the Rachmaninoff, insisting that Thomas Schwartzberg arrange it as a vocalise. And then he drilled her on it, over and over and over again, until she reached even his standard of acceptability.

  The low strings began their pizzicato plucking of strings. After two measures the beautiful melody of Gabriel Faure's Pavane was heard in the room. Marla's golden voice was almost sirenesque in how it reached out and enticed everyone to follow her in what was truly a dance. Lilting, soaring, at times leaping, everyone danced with her-orchestra, patrons, guildsmen, burghers and all. As she swayed on the stage, they swayed with her-as her voice rose and fell, they would sit taller or relax. More than a few of them, from what Giacomo could observe, would unconsciously move their hands slightly in imitation of her arm movements.

  It wasn't a long work; it soon began to slow. It was as if the dancers were dropping out one by one, leaving Marla and only a few attendants to complete it. Gracefully, gracefully, she sang the final phrases, holding tones out for what seemed like an impossibly long time, to the last few notes-the last steps of the dance, as it were.

  Hers was not the bravura performance that Master Andrea had delivered, Giacomo decided as he stood and applauded with everyone else. But her warmth, her style, her grace had involved everyone in the room in a way that made them feel a part of the music. Andrea had performed; Marla had given them a gift of love.

  Giacomo quit analyzing and shouted "Brava! Brava!" along with Girolamo. He beat his hands together until they hurt.

  The final work on the program was almost an anticlimax: The Hebrides overture, by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a new work for the orchestra. Of course, as new as the orchestra was, almost everything was a new work for them, Giacomo admitted.

  It was a lyrical work, in some ways, working the string sections very melodically, especially the low strings. He closed his eyes again to listen. Images of the sea were evoked. He remembered trips to the shore in Italy, watching the waves rolling in without ceasing, sun glinting from the blue water.

  The following section was laden with brass and was more tumultuous, as if a brief storm had blown across the sea. The storm was indeed brief, and the music returned to the lyrical mode.

  As he rode the waves of sound, Giacomo mused. The wind players were continuing to improve, he noted. Marcus Wendell, the Grantville band director, had estimated it would take a year for down-time musicians to grow proficient with the new and changed wind instruments: the metal transversal flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones-all new forms. Oboes and bassoons, vastly different than their ancestors. The valves available for the trumpets and their cousins, the very different mouthpieces. Yes, it had taken every bit of twelve months for the players to first learn their instruments, and then to learn to play together. But the result… oh, the result was well worth Giacomo's wait and their travail.

  To hear this music in a hall, with the ambience and the harmonics unfettered, that was bliss. To hear the players proving that they could measure up to standard of the up-time music was emboldening. And to see young Franz-Giacomo blithely ignored the very slight difference in their ages-a down-timer himself, leading them in their work with style, grace and panache was a confirmation. Now, now he knew for certain that the music he was beginning to hear in his head would be realized.

  The music began to grow in intensity, drawing Giacomo from his thoughts. The final section began to echo the themes and treatments of the storm. The rush to the finale was on.

  The orchestra arrived at a grand chord… and then Herr Mendelssohn played his little joke. Just as everyone was prepared for the piece to end, the clarinet restated the opening theme-surprise!-making the audience think that there was more to come, just before it died away.

  The moment of silence that followed had an air of uncertainty, of "are they really done with it," but finally the applause began. Giacomo was smiling as he began clapping his hands. The more he considered the composer's little prank, the funnier it became, until he started laughing. Noticing that Girolamo was looking at him with a quizzical expression, he shook his head.

  After Franz had shaken his hair back and taken his bows, and after the orchestra had taken their bow, voices began to be heard calling from the audience.

  " Die Sanger! "

  "The singers!"

  " I cantanti! " came from burly Girolamo at Giacomo's side.

  The calls grew both in volume and in frequency, until after a few moments there was a constant roar above the applause. Franz held both hands up in surrender. Smiling, he beckoned to the side door.

  The room erupted as Marla entered, followed by Andrea and Hermann, who was carrying… a chair? Now Giacomo was truly intrigued.

  The two singers arrived in the center, joined hands and took a bow. Andrea then held up his hands and motioned for everyone to hush and be seated, while Marla beckoned to Franz to come join them. He did so with a very bemused expression on his face.

  "Thank you for coming tonight," Marla said to the audience. "We had hoped you would enjoy our offerings enough to ask for an encore." Laughter sounded all around the room. "And indeed, we have one planned. However, there has been a slight change in the plan." More laughter as Franz's expression went from bemused to surprised to suspicious in that many moments.

  "Today is my husband's birthday." Applause. "He has reached the advanced age of twenty-seven." Laughter and applause. "And so, with the connivance… I mean the cooperation of our friends…" Marla turned and waved at the orchestra, who waved back. "I have a song I would like to sing for Franz."

  She tugged on Franz's arm. For a brief moment he resisted, a mutinous expression on his face, but only for a moment. Then he smiled-a bit forced, Giacomo judged, but graceful nonetheless-and suffered himself to be led to the chair that Hermann had placed at the front of the audience.

  Marla returned to the center, and clasped her hands in front of her. "The song I'm about to sing is from the future, but it isn't one of the grand works that you typically hear from me. Nor, for those of you who come by The Green Horse tavern on certain nights is it one of the Irish songs I sing with my friends.

  "For all that, it is a classic in its own way. I offer it to you, but I sing it to my husband. Unchained Melody. "

  Marla bowed her head for a moment. Giacomo was impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. When she raised it again and looked at Franz, Hermann began the introduction. After four measures of quiet piano, Marla began to sing.

  Unlike the previous vocal pieces, this one had lyrics in English. Giacomo had heard Marla practicing this song several days before. The lyrics weren't what he would consider immortal poetry, but when mated with the music… ah, they became truly memorable.

  Quiet, oh so quiet Marla's voice, but it filled the room as she sang to her love, her darling, as she sang about hungering for him. Giacomo knew without looking that everyone could hear, that everyone had once again been enraptured by the young woman's talent. But now, now there was something-a tone, a timbre, an emotion-something that he had never heard in her voice before. The low notes positively throbbed.

  Another voice joined Marla as she began the second verse. Giacomo's eyes opened wide and his head snapped to focus on Andrea Abati. He was standing two paces behind Marla, mirroring her posture and position. Shadow to her glory, his eyes closed, he poured his voice out to complement hers. Singing descant, he followed Marla's lead as she mourned the passage of time and questioned whether her love still responded to her.

  They two had sung together before. And they both were called angel voices, yes. But this… ai, Dio, que bellisima! It was enough to tear the heart from a statue, the quiet passion of Marla supported by the pure fire of Andrea.

  The twined voices swelled on the first line of the chorus, surging to a peak as Marla poured forth her need, then beginning to fall off of
it. Each successive line dwindled, until the last two words were sung in the same quiet intensity of the beginning.

  Marla sang the opening lines of the interlude, voice floating, the lower register of her voice just so resonant, so full, the intensity so quietly overpowering that Giacomo forgot to breathe. The music evoked the image of flowing waters that the words described.

  Andrea re-entered, still with the higher descant harmony, perfectly partnering Marla's voice. In one little corner of his mind, Giacomo was amazed at how perfectly they matched-it was as if one throat was producing two tones. The final phrase swelled as Marla called her love to wait, leading to the return of the verses.

  Now the full voice was unleashed, now Marla was unfettered, now the passion was totally unveiled. And Andrea kept step, note by note, singing around her voice, somehow blending, yet still it was Marla's song.

  The climax of the entire song arrived with the first line of the chorus. The tempo slowed, and the singers crested on the word "need," seemingly holding the note forever, although Giacomo knew that it was barely the four beats of one measure. At last, they descended, repeating the pattern quieter and at a lower pitch for the second line.

  Andrea dropped out for the final line. Marla broke her pose as she began the phrase, holding her hands out toward Franz, sustaining the word "love" for a long moment, allowing the briefest of pauses, and then very softly singing the final two words "… to me."

  Her voice just seemed to hold that note forever, until Giacomo realized with a start that he couldn't hear it any longer.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  Songs of love were not uncommon. Street music, art music, they could be heard almost any time, anywhere. But tonight, tonight had been different. Tonight a woman had bared her soul in truth, unheeding of the public who witnessed it. Tonight a love had been declared, had been poured out like a drink offering on the altar of God, in so selfless and unmannered a fashion that Giacomo marveled. Truth to tell, he was somewhat uncomfortable with observing it, as if he had unwittingly committed an act of voyeurism. Perhaps everyone felt something of that, for the silence held.

  Finally Franz stood and stepped to his wife. He claimed Marla's hands and raised them to his lips. At that moment, the silence shattered as the wildest applause of the night broke free.

  ***

  "I am not worthy of you," Franz murmured as he kissed Marla's hands, ignoring the uproar behind him.

  Marla simply smiled and shook her head.

  "You knew-everyone knew-you were going to do this, and nobody told me."

  "Nope." The smile grew larger.

  "You change my life and my plans at your whims."

  "Yep." Marla's eyes began dancing

  "And there is nothing I can do but love you."

  "You just remember that, because the changes are just beginning."

  Marla giggled as Franz's expression wavered between alarm and curiosity. Curiosity won.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're going to be a father."

  ***

  Just when Giacomo thought the noise was beginning to taper off, Marla melted into Franz's embrace for a passionate kiss. The audience just exploded with applause and cheers.

  Magdeburg, May 1635

  Dear Aunt Susan-and you too, Jonni, I know you're reading this

  Boy, do I miss email. I Hate writing letters!!!!!!!!!!! (sigh) But I promised I would keep you up to date on stuff, and I can't afford the telegraph very often, so here I am scribbling on paper.

  First news is, I'm pregnant. And yes, I'm sure. I've missed my second period, and I've always been like clockwork before now. (kisses and hugs)

  Okay, are you guys through celebrating? Seriously, this is really going to put a crimp in some things. My best guess is it happened in early February, so we're pegging the due date in early November. I was supposed to sing in the anniversary concert for the Battle of Wismar like I did last October. I'll probably be as big as a whale, so it looks like I won't be doing that. Even if I wanted to appear on a stage like that-which I don't!- my diaphragm will probably be pushed up to the bottom of my lungs. I'll be doing good to breathe, much less sing.

  Our first big concert of the year happened a couple of nights ago, and everything went really well. I played my flute in one song, and sang in two more. Everyone seemed to like them pretty well. Mary Simpson was very complimentary. I don't know why some people think she's a real hard case. She's never been anything but nice to me and Franz.

  I told Franz he was going to be a father after the concert. I thought he was going to pass out on the spot! He's been treating me like a porcelain doll ever since. He keeps trying to make me sit down, and doesn't want me to do anything. I don't know who's more scared, him or me.

  Yeah, I'm scared. I'd be nervous if we were still in the USA, I'm sure. I'm really nervous now. I mean, if something goes wrong, we don't have the doctors or the hospitals or the medicines or the tools or… I'd better stop that before I start crying again.

  I am excited, too. I think I'll like being a mom. But if you've got any advice for me Sis, or you too, Aunt Susan, I really want to hear it.

  That's all for now.

  Love to you and all the kids.

  Marla

  Magdeburg, August 1635

  Dear Aunt Susan,

  Me again. Thanks for sending me the nursing bras. I've really started putting on weight (wonder why?), and I'm enough larger already that these feel more comfortable.

  I've been really lucky-the whole morning sickness thing wasn't much of a problem. That's good, since I don't puke easily. I did twice, though. Turns out Franz's stomach is a little sensitive. I looked up from the first time, and he was positively green. I started laughing, and he started to get mad, then he got a funny look on his face, and before I knew it he'd pulled the bowl away from me and added his supper to mine. Afterwards, he laughed with me, but the next time it happened I made him leave the room.

  Well, we've finally settled on names: Paul Otto if it's a boy, after my brother and his father; and Alison Wilhelmina if it's a girl, after my mother and his mother. Franz kept wanting to dump these huge German names on the kid, and I told him no way. He finally came around to my way of thinking.

  Franz surprised me yesterday. Gunther Achterhof put him in touch with a woodcarver, and he brought home a cradle. It's beautiful! It's not very big, but it will do for a few months, anyway, and it's hand carved out of oak, with musical notes and stuff on the head and foot boards. I cried.

  Speaking of crying, how long will I be so emotional? And don't tell me 20 years! I mean, when my hormones finally settle down, will I get back to normal again? I know it's a dumb question, but this is my first time, remember?

  Umm, I know it's asking a lot, but if you or Jonni could see your way clear to coming to Magdeburg around November 1 and staying until after the baby is born, I would really appreciate it. There are several Grantville women in town now, but they're not family. You know-it's not the same. Let me know if you can.

  Gotta go.

  Love.

  Marla

  Magdeburg, October 7, 1635

  "You are sure you will be fine?"

  Marla swatted her husband on the arm with the programme.

  "Will you get backstage where you belong? I'm fine. I'll be fine. And I've got Mary here watching over me."

  Mary Simpson leaned over Marla. "She'll be fine, Franz. I'll take care of her. Go."

  Franz stood by Marla's chair for a moment more, then slowly turned and headed for the door, looking back over his shoulder more than once. He straightened up just in time to avoid walking into the doorframe.

  "Men!" Marla snorted. "He thinks I'm totally helpless."

  "Actually, dear," Mary smiled, "the problem isn't that he thinks you're helpless, it's that he knows he's helpless. Whatever happens with you and the baby, he's already made the only contribution he can make, and men aren't wired for patience and helplessness. Are they, John?" She poke
d her husband.

  "Not for that," John Simpson said. "Mary was lucky. I was gone a lot with the Navy while she was carrying Tom. I'm sure I'd have driven her crazy."

  "Oh, heavens." Mary laughed. "You'd have been there every morning, clipboard in hand, taking statistics and measurements, figuring out if I was behind the optimum health curve, laying out exercise plans and diets. I wouldn't have had a moment's rest."

  Mary patted John's hand. Marla didn't miss how his much larger hand curled around her small one. She'd never believed that John Simpson was quite as stoic and hard-shelled as everyone said he was. After Mary's adventures last year, she had noticed that he seemed a little more… demonstrative, maybe. He certainly smiled at her more in public than he did before.

  "Anyway, be patient with him, dear. It's much better than a husband who doesn't care, and he'll level off after the baby's born."

  There followed several moments of conversation, until someone on the other side of John Simpson claimed Mary's attention. Marla sat back and fanned herself with the programme. Early October notwithstanding, at eight months pregnant she was hot almost all the time. She felt as big as a house, and about as maneuverable as one of the Admiral's ironclads on the river. Please let this kid get here soon!

  To take her mind off her condition, Marla started reading the programme, although she knew it by heart. Franz had been rehearsing the orchestra for weeks.

  Wellington's Victory – Ludwig Beethoven.

  Lament for a Fallen Eagle – Giacomo Carissimi

  1812 Overture – Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

  All music associated with battle and victories, two from the up-time and one from the present. Appropriate for the concert commemorating the second anniversary of the Battle of Wismar.

  "Does it feel strange to be sitting here instead of singing the lament tonight?"

  Marla looked up to see Mary focused on her again.